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“I go to work everyday.”

“But it’s a holiday!”

I don’t know if that’s the warlock speaking or the fact that he’s from Shadowvale. All of the locals seem to feel the same way, especially when the Fall Festival is in full swing.

“It is,” I agree. “That’s why I’m closing up an hour earlier than usual.”

His expression says that this is not the answer he wanted. “But you’re still opening?”

“Yes. Some of us have jobs.”

“I had a job.”

I can’t help myself. Teasing the unexpected man in my bed is a whole lot easier than freaking out about what he’s doing there… “Catching mice is not a job, Mr. Whiskers.”

“I’ll have you know, being a mouser is a fine profession, pumpkin. If you had the little vermin running around your shop, you’d be standing on a chair, squealing at me to bite their little heads off before your precious health department found out about the infestation.”

And… he’s not wrong, is he?

“Besides,” he adds, “I did have a job. Before I was cursed to fur, I was a pharmacist in a small town called Weston. They didn’t have warlocks there, so I got the next best thing while I waited for my mate.”

While I waited for you.

He doesn’t say it, but it’s implied, and I feel a funny sensation low in my gut when I notice how he’s looking at me now…

I clear my throat. “A pharmacist, huh? That’s so… normal.”

“I told you. I’ve only been cursed since 1987. Before that, I lived thirty-one years as a man. And I might have magic, but, my dear Kate, I am just a man.”

A man who thinks that I’m the woman who can make him a man again—or something like that.

I reach out, patting his shoulder. “And I’m a piemaker. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go make some pies.”

“Kate—”

I shimmy out of the bed before he can do anything to stop me. “I’ve got to get that alarm off. Take a shower. Head downstairs. Since you’ve made yourself at home in my bed, feel free to stay here.” Translation: do not follow me. “Happy Halloween, Vincent.”

And, with that, I scurry across the floor and disappear into my attached bathroom, his Happy Halloween, pumpkin chasing after me.

By eight o’clock, The Pie Chart smells like cinnamon, butter, apples, and coffee, which means that despite the whole my cat is actually a cursed warlock and thinks we’re destined to bang our way into forever thing, it’s a normal morning for me. The shop opens at ten, so there’s still time for another round of ovens full of pies to bake and cool before customers will start filing in. I’m trying to get them done while also doing my best to ignore the blond that—despite my best hint for him to stay away—ambled his way downstairs about ten minutes after I flipped the lightswitch on downstairs.

It’s not easy, and when I just can’t, I snap. “Get off the counter.”

Vincent looks at me from where he’s sitting on the stainless-steel prep counter. “Why?”

I put down the bowl of pumpkin filling I’m carrying. “People eat food prepared on that.”

“I know.”

“And you’re sitting on it.”

“It gives me the best view of my mate as she spins like a tornado, making her delicious pies.”

There’s a dollop of whipped cream on his nose. I don’t know if he was just hungry again or he did it to get my attention when I was trying to ignore him, but when I was busy at the ovens, Vincent helped himself to a massive slice of pumpkin pie from the fridge—complete with enough whipped cream on top of it, it hid the actual slice itself.

He pronounced it delicious, rubbed his belly, then found himself a perch that would be out of my way if it wasn’t one of my counters and I’m still in the middle of pre-opening prep.

“Get down, Vincent.”